


Intoxication of the Fall

by timehopper



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Sex, Biting, Come Swallowing, Demon Jesse McCree, Desperation, Hair-pulling, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bond, Oral Knotting, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Scratching, Transformation, Werewolf Hanzo Shimada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 11:26:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19197829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: Hanzo has long since given up fighting his transformations. When Jesse McCree follows him into the woods on the night of the full moon, Hanzo decides to give up something else, too.





	Intoxication of the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> The winner of a monthly prompt-suggestion poll. The prompt in question was submitted by [WereKem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WereKem/pseuds/WereKem): "Werewolf Hanzo/Demon McCree and some great big ol' knotty fun." I don't know how much "fun" they're having, but they're defintely having some real good knotty sex. ;9 
> 
> This was available for early-access two weeks ago offsite. If you'd like to get early access to future monthly fics and see some exclusive WIPs and previews, check out some of my links in the end notes. Or don't! It's up to you. But for now, enjoy!

The forest is still, quiet, dark. Peaceful, or so it seems, until the clouds part to reveal the bright, round moon, to bathe the forest floor in its light. Alone, Hanzo turns his face skyward, lets the moonlight illuminate his face, wash over him like a wave, soak into his skin. It sends a ripple of warmth and a flash of heat, a trickle and then a geyser of sweet sweet thrill rushing through his veins. He falls to his knees. His eyes roll back in his head.

He had gave up fighting the transformation years ago. Now, although he doesn’t quite embrace it, Hanzo accepts it. He lets the crushing waves of heat and electricity and power wash over him without struggle, without defiance. All it takes is that first warning sign, the tiniest contraction in his muscles, the sharp prick of sensation in his ears and his nose, and he knows: soon, he will change.

The feeling comes quickly, sharply; his transformation takes him out of almost nowhere, furious and overwhelming, and Hanzo’s palms hit the forest floor. His nails, blunt, scratch at the dirt. He tries to get a proper grip, tries to ground himself, but can’t. Soon, he gives up. Short, harsh breaths hiss out through gritted teeth; his lips peel back over them as they grow, long and sharp. He growls, clenches his fists as he feels his nails grow and dig into the meat of his palms. The _fur_ of his palms. 

And then the tension leaves him. He relaxes, lets the light breeze weave itself through the soft, black-and-white fur that now covers him. 

He stands. Takes a deep breath. 

Howls. 

And then he runs. Runs through the woods he’s fled to, relishes in the feeling of the earth beneath his feet - hands - paws. It’s liberating, somehow, to let himself be taken by this, to allow himself this small freedom after so many years of trying to hold it all back. 

But he can’t let go completely. He knows what he is. Knows he’s still dangerous, even in more lucid times, like this. He knows all too well what happens when he doesn’t run, when he allows himself to himself stay in the city, to surround himself with people. With friends. With family.

He fears himself, sometimes - perhaps he always will. But it’s justified, he thinks, as he remembers his brother’s face, mangled and scarred and red red red beneath his paws. Hanzo fears his strength, his teeth, his claws, the overwhelming urge to bite and tear and rend and drink in moonlight and blood. 

He fears himself. Others fear him, too. 

But what doesn't fear him is the thing that stands before him. 

Hanzo stops running. He straightens up, from all fours to hind legs. He sniffs the air, narrows his eyes at the man that stands before him. At the man he once believed to be Jesse McCree.

But Jesse McCree is no man at all. He may look like one in size, shape, and cadence, but now, with his heightened senses, Hanzo realizes that he doesn't... smell right. Under the layers of fabric softener in his clothes and cologne on his skin, he smells just the tiniest bit like sulfur, like wine, like fouled meat and blood. Not his own, though - like the blood of six or seven others. Hanzo wonders if that blood stains his skin or runs beneath it. 

McCree holds out his hand and smiles, sharp-toothed and too wide, at the beast snarling before him. "Come on, now, don't be like that,” he says, voice like honey and whiskey.

Hanzo’s nose wrinkles. “So you were never human at all,” he rumbles as he crouches low, poises to strike. The image of Jesse McCree scoffs; his smile widens uncannily. Hanzo’s fur bristles.

“Shouldn’t be surprised you knew somethin’ was up,” he answers. He steps closer. Hanzo backs up.

"Stay away from me, demon," Hanzo growls, for McCree’s protection as much as his own. It takes everything he has not to leap at the hand, snap McCree's arm in two with his pointed fangs and his long, powerful jaw. It's like this every time: he wants to eat, to kill. To let himself go, let himself become the beast he feels inside him. 

He wants to fall.

Wants to fall into Jesse. Wants to tear him apart from the inside out, with teeth and hands and tongue. The temptation is strong, overpowering. Unsurprising, too - because isn't that what demons do? Tempt? 

McCree's arm moves. It's a quick motion, a small one, not meant to alarm but to remind Hanzo that his offer still stands. “It’s okay, Hanzo. You know me,” he says, and for a moment Hanzo sees the man again, sees Jesse McCree with his bright smile and his kind, warm eyes. But then he blinks and sees the demon, gaze sharp and red and hungry. 

Hanzo does not move. His lips curl over bared teeth. He growls; McCree laughs. “Come on. It ain’t like you got much left to hide like this, do you? And you know what I am now, anyway. Why don’t you let me show you what I can do?”

Hanzo sniffs the air. Every muscle in his body warns against this. Against _him_. But Jesse McCree's pull is strong ( _fire_ and _danger_ and _meat_ and _blood blood blood_ so much _blood_ ), and the urges of the wolf inside Hanzo ( _fight_ and _kill_ and _tear, bite, rend_ ) are too powerful.

He takes his hand, and McCree smiles with far too many teeth.

\---

There is nothing gentle about the way they fall together. 

As soon as McCree closes his fingers around Hanzo’s paw, Hanzo yanks the demon to him and holds him there. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, to memorize McCree’s scent (so familiar but so new, so dangerous, so _enticing_ ). He lets himself feel the slightest touch of almost-too-hot heat seep through his fur, and the same instant it becomes too much, Hanzo throws McCree against the nearest tree. 

McCree hits it hard, chest first, and it’s all he can do to brace himself against the trunk with both hands. He whips around, but can’t move: Hanzo is on him in the space between heartbeats, a clawed hand to his neck to hold him in place. The tips of his too-long nails dig into the still-soft flesh of McCree’s neck, but he does not press any harder. Does not cut off McCree’s air supply. 

“Feisty, ain’tcha?” The demon reaches up and tangles his fingers in the thick fur behind Hanzo’s ears. “Now that you’re finally lettin’ go.” 

He leans up, stands on his toes. Hanzo is so much taller like this, so much bigger, so much stronger. He could crush McCree where he stood, if he wanted. It would be easy. But he doesn’t; he holds himself back and snaps his jaws shut. 

McCree raises an eyebrow. His eyes darken. His smile grows. 

He kisses Hanzo. 

Kissing is not easy in this form. Hanzo isn’t even sure he would call what they’re doing _kissing_ ; it’s more like they press their teeth together, bump noses, lick into each others’ mouths. It’s like they’re fighting, almost, and it sends a thrill through Hanzo, makes him feel even more like the beast he knows he is, deep down. And it feels so good, _so good_ to let himself fall.

McCree pulls back. He grips Hanzo’s arm with one hand, fingers and nails digging in: sharp, so sharp. Had he always had claws? 

“Much fun as this is, I’d rather we take this somewhere a little more comfortable,” he says, and without warning, the world around Hanzo spins and plunges into darkness. When he opens his eyes, he is in an unfamiliar place. 

It’s dark here, too. Hanzo has no problem seeing in it. He doesn’t need to see much, anyway; he can smell McCree. Can feel him, soft skin under rough paws. The claws of one hand still dig into his bicep. 

“Where are we?” Hanzo snaps.

“Somewhere comfortable,” McCree answers, and that’s the last thing he says for a while. 

He grabs Hanzo by the sides of the face and pulls him in again. This time, what they do feels much more like a kiss. There’s still too much teeth to it, but their lips touch for a brief moment before giving way to tongues. Hanzo can taste the inside of McCree’s mouth, hot and vivid: ash and spice and blood. His eyes roll back and he groans. Lets himself fall further.

McCree pulls him forward, toward the bed. Hanzo throws him onto it, all instinct, and stretches over him, rakes his claws down McCree’s chest and tears at the clothes that cover it. He leaves jagged lines in his wake, angry and red. McCree gasps and arches into it, hissing his pleasure with every centimetre of skin Hanzo claws at, from chest to thighs to calves to hips.

Hanzo’s fingers twitch. His mouth falls open and his tongue lolls out as hot, damp breaths escape him. He looks down at McCree hungrily, like he wants to devour everything the demon is. The voice in the back of his mind that is still human reminds him this is just what the demon wants, but it’s too late: there’s no denying McCree now, no going back from this. The demon may be beneath him, may be at the mercy of Hanzo’s teeth and claws, but he is the one who is in control now. 

And Hanzo will take whatever he can tear from McCree. Hungrily, happily, he will take.

Hanzo pulls back. He licks his lips, eyes roving over McCree’s naked form and stopping when they reach the demon’s dark, dark eyes. They flash at him and Hanzo grins. He takes off what remains of his clothing and crawls back over McCree to meet him in an open-mouthed kiss. 

He paws at McCree’s chest. Scratches down it. Something shifts under his touch, and when Hanzo pulls away to look, the texture of McCree’s skin is different: it’s bumpy and uneven, like tiny ashen scales have erupted over it, chitinous and shimmering. 

Hanzo leans down, sniffs at them, slides his tongue along the newly-formed ridges. They taste like nothing he can name. Something unique.

He pulls away again to take in the demon’s entire form. McCree returns the gaze, grinning ear-to-ear. His skin is redder, brighter, almost glowing. The black scales glint against it, but they no longer hold Hanzo’s attention: instead he turns his eyes toward the two dark, curved horns that have sprouted from McCree’s forehead. They’re tiny. Pathetic.

“Hmph. Is that all you are?” Hanzo taunts. “You smelled so much stronger than this.” 

“Just you wait,” McCree retorts, finally finding his voice. Hanzo laughs and reaches for one of the horns, ready to rise to the challenge. He runs the pad of his finger over its sharp tip. McCree gasps and twitches in the wake of the touch, his entire body lifting off the bed. His cock, hard and insistent now, presses against the crook of Hanzo’s thigh, and the werewolf laughs again, rubs at the horn in his hand, fascinated by the way McCree writhes beneath his paw and enthralled all the more when the horn grows under his hold.

“You are changing,” he says. “A sex demon, then? Feeding off the pleasure of being touched?”

McCree shakes his head. “Feed off energy of all kinds.”

Hanzo huffs and leans down. “Is that so?” he murmurs, breath hot against the thin skin at the base of McCree’s neglected horn. The demon shivers, clenches his jaw. Hanzo smiles, predatory, though he doubts McCree can see it. He does not need to see, anyway - he simply needs to _feel_. 

Hanzo’s tongue slips from between his bared teeth to wrap around the base of McCree’s horn. He licks at it, drags it up over the curved point, and McCree howls. 

“Quiet.” Hanzo yanks the horn in his hand and forces McCree’s head to the side so he can bite the back of the demon’s neck, hold it between his jaws in an attempt to hush him, to put him in his place. It only half-works: McCree pants hard, helpless against Hanzo’s continued attention, but he does not shut up, does not relinquish total control. Not yet. 

“You get less and less human every minute, sugar,” he says. 

Hanzo digs his teeth in deeper. 

McCree hisses, but the sound twists itself into a breathless laugh. “What, didn’t like that? It was a compliment, you know. Lettin’ this thing inside me take over was the best decision I ever made.” 

Hanzo snarls and backs up, replacing teeth with claws and pressing his paw firmly to the back of McCree’s neck. “So you _were_ Jesse McCree, once.” 

“Yeah. Long time ago. Felt easier to keep the name than use the first one I was given. Hell wasn’t gonna be lookin’ for some no-name human, but they might’ve gone lookin’ for one of their own.” 

Nails dig into Hanzo’s hip, sharp. He grunts and flinches, but his hold on McCree does not break. The demon smiles up at him with wide, excited eyes. “You know how it is. You of all people should know how it feels to be hunted.” 

Hanzo’s eyes flash. He bares his teeth, lifts his paw from Jesse’s neck to grip his hair. “You talk too much,” he growls as his nails scratch against the hard flesh of McCree’s scalp. The friction is strange, exciting. But Hanzo has no time, no desire to linger on the sensation.

He moves forward on his knees. Pulls the demon’s head down so McCree is at last face-to-face with his cock, hard and red and leaking. McCree licks his lips, opens wide, and Hanzo forces him down.

It’s too much for McCree at first. He twitches violently, almost chokes. He does not try to escape, though; he moves his hands to clutch at Hanzo’s ass, to dig his nails in and pull the werewolf closer to him. 

The nails of the left hand are sharper than the right’s, Hanzo notes. The palm feels rougher, too, as if his hand were made entirely of scales and stone instead of flesh. It’s hot to the touch, too hot, and he wonders briefly if that’s where the “thing” inside of McCree came from, where the demon first began to fester like an infection. But he does not give himself the time to wonder or to ask. There are more important things to be dealt with right now, and Hanzo would rather not stop Jesse in the middle of sucking him off. Not when he is so eager. 

Eager though he is, McCree does not have much room to maneuver between the cock in his mouth and the vice grip Hanzo holds him in. Still, he tries: he licks at the underside of it whenever he’s given the chance, swallows around the angry red tip and tightens his lips as far down the base as he can go. Hanzo huffs and rubs the base of one of McCree’s horns with one hand, right where the flesh of his scalp is thinnest. A reward for doing so well. 

McCree groans. His eyes roll back in his head, and his jaw goes slack for half a moment before Hanzo tightens his grip in his hair and shoves him down further. 

“You can do better than that,” the werewolf says, voice coming out more like a snarl than anything. He thrusts into McCree’s mouth, deeper and deeper, groaning as he hits the back of the demon’s throat over and over again. Hanzo can feel himself swelling, can feel his knot begin to fill out as he mercilessly fucks McCree’s throat, and all he can think about is how much he wants it in there, how much he wants to have McCree’s deliciously too-hot lips wrapped inescapably around it.

He pulls out. Adjusts his angle. Grins ferally down at McCree, whose unfocused eyes barely register the beast before him. 

And then he slams back in.

Hanzo howls, euphoric, as McCree takes him in all the way, right down to the base, lips stretching impossibly wide over the swollen base of his cock. He can’t pull out anymore - doesn’t need to, anyhow: he’s deep in McCree’s throat, past any sort of gag reflex the demon may have had. McCree’s tongue twitches, long and forked, trying to slide along Hanzo’s shaft, to wrap around it and stroke him to completion. It’s hardly necessary, though - even the slightest movement sends shockwaves of cascading pleasure all throughout Hanzo. It pushes him just as far as he needs to go, and he comes with one last stuttering howl, spilling himself down the demon’s throat. 

McCree breathes, hot and heavy through his nose, stealing air between the spurts of cum gushing down his throat. He looks up at Hanzo admiringly, almost reverently, as he tries to swallow around him. Mercifully, it gets easier with every passing second as Hanzo’s knot deflates. 

Hanzo pulls his softening cock from between McCree’s lips. A string of cum and saliva still connects the two of them. It breaks when he shuffles back and takes the space to admire how McCree’s neck lolls to the side, how McCree’s eyes look right through him. He looks spent, exhausted, satiated. He hasn’t even been touched yet. Not properly.

Hanzo decides to remedy that. 

He leans forward and presses his nose, his lips, his teeth to the side of McCree’s neck. He licks along the demon’s jawline, between his ear and the beginning of his beard. Tries to soothe him, to bring him back to the present. Or so it seems, at first; as soon as McCree blinks, shifts, tries to reach up to touch Hanzo, the werewolf reaches between the two of them, runs the pad of his finger over the ridged head of McCree’s cock, and shivers when the demon falls back, powerless against his hold. 

He strokes. McCree gasps, groans, writhes against the bed as Hanzo slowly teases him. He moves his fingers one at a time over the tip, smearing the small trickle of precum that’s begun to leak out of it. The demon’s clawed hands grip the sheets, almost tears them. Hanzo licks along his horns. McCree cries out again. 

“Still so noisy,” Hanzo says, a low rumble in his chest. He squeezes McCree’s cock. The demon twitches. 

“And you - ah - you’re still holdin’ back,” he stutters. “Still tryin’ to play at bein’ human.” 

Hanzo growls. He leans in close to McCree’s face. His wide, powerful jaws loom dangerously close to the demon’s lips. “Silence.” 

It comes as no surprise that McCree continues to speak. The demon laughs and reaches up, tangling his fingers in the fur behind Hanzo’s ear. It’s equal parts comforting and alarming. Hanzo’s hackles rise.

“That little stunt you just pulled?” McCree continues in a whisper. He leans in close. Hanzo can feel the breath on his muzzle, can smell it stronger than ever: sulfur, wine, salt. Pheromones. Arousal. “It was nice, but it weren’t enough. I want _more_ , Hanzo. I want you to let go. Feel what I feel. I want you to stop pretendin’ to be somethin’ you ain’t.” 

He stops Hanzo before he can speak, pulling the werewolf down and forcing him into another open-mouthed kiss. Hanzo ignores the way his legs go weak at the feeling of McCree’s forked tongue licking along the roof of his mouth. He ignores the eager twitch of his cock as that tongue slides over his teeth, tangles around them. Ignores the thrill of want that shoots through him when he tastes himself in McCree’s mouth.

McCree pulls away. Waits. Looks Hanzo right in the eyes, and all Hanzo sees is red. Deep, dark, all-devouring red.  

Short, suffocating silence rings between them but a moment before McCree says one thing more. He opens his mouth and his voice echoes around Hanzo: in his ears, in his mind, in his very soul.

“Let go.” 

And Hanzo does.

He doesn’t know what comes over him, exactly, but in the split second after McCree speaks, he feels a frenzy overcome him: want, need, hunger, _desperation._  

He doesn’t think as his claws dig into McCree’s hips. Doesn’t think as he flips the demon over. Doesn’t think as he grips the meat of McCree’s ass to spread his cheeks apart, as he leans down and licks at the demon’s rim, as he pushes his long tongue past the clenched ring of muscle to stretch him open. He barely hears McCree’s loud, desperate moans of pleasure - doesn’t care when they stop, when they’re replaced by whining and panting. Nothing registers to Hanzo but the need to have McCree, to take him, to make him his.

He pulls back. Licks his lips at the sight of McCree’s hole, open and gaping and ready for him. 

Hanzo does not hold back anymore.

He slams into McCree and buries himself in to the hilt. McCree cries out beneath him. His whole body goes tense, tight. 

Hanzo pulls out. Slams back in again. 

He holds McCree’s hips, pulls him back to meet his thrusts. He feels his knot swell again, fill out more and more with each powerful snap of his hips. Soon Hanzo can hardly move at all: his knot is too big, and when he can no longer pull out, he leans down, presses his chest to McCree’s ridged, chitinous back, and snarls in the demon’s ear: “ _Mine._ ” 

He jerks his hips, presses in deeper. McCree gasps. He bucks against Hanzo, presses himself further onto the werewolf’s cock. He laughs, a raspy hiss of a noise. “You sure about that?” 

Hanzo snarls. A great paw slams down on the back of McCree’s head to force his head into the mattress. He ignores the laughter. Doesn’t care about it anymore. All he cares about is pressing further into McCree, forcing the demon down, making him shut up. Making the demon beg for more. Beg for _him_. 

McCree says something Hanzo doesn’t understand. Another language, maybe. He doesn’t care. He bites the back of McCree’s neck, trying to force him into proper submission. He digs his teeth in deep. Bites a little too hard - something cracks under his teeth. The flood of a new, unfamiliar taste floods his mouth. Not blood. Not anything tangible. It’s something new, something heady and ashy and entirely McCree.

And Hanzo wants more. 

He fucks McCree hard. So hard it may have hurt a human. But McCree is not human - hasn’t been for a long time - and he relishes in it, writhes ecstatically in both pain and pleasure. It’s everything he’d wanted, everything Hanzo had refused to give him, everything Hanzo had rejected about himself until now. 

“Yes, _yes_ ,” McCree hisses. He arches his back, pushes against Hanzo’s thrusting, rolls his hips to grind against the werewolf’s cock. “That’s it, sweetheart, more, give me _more_ \--” 

Hanzo snarls. He yanks McCree’s hair, forces his head back as far as it will go, anything to stop the words from falling from his lips. He doesn’t want to hear anything from McCree now - all he wants is to feel him, to fuck him, to give him what he wants.

Hanzo comes, jaw opening wide and back arching obscenely. He’s poised as if to howl, but no sound escapes him. White noise floods his ears: the rush of pumping blood, the scramble of McCree’s knees against the sheets, the rub of fur against scales. He doesn’t even notice McCree has come too, not until his knot deflates once more and he pulls out, slick and sticky all at once. 

When he is finished, Hanzo hovers over McCree and slowly, slowly, begins to come back to himself. 

He huffs. Without thinking, Hanzo crawls off the bed, kneels at its side, and once again spreads McCree’s cheeks wide. He slides his tongue between them, licking up the mess he’d made, more instinct than care. The demon twitches feebly against him, and it’s a better reward than Hanzo ever could have dreamed. 

When he finishes cleaning up his mate ( _Mate_ , he thinks, _Mine mine mine_ ), Hanzo flips McCree over and pulls him close, ridged back to furry chest. He wraps his arms around the demon and licks at his neck, all lupine affection and warmth. 

“Mine,” he grunts, deep and low and rumbling in his throat. McCree smiles. His eyes glint, unseen, and he reaches back, scratches at the fur behind Hanzo’s ears. 

“Mine,” McCree corrects. And Hanzo can not find it in him to argue. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, or find out how to support me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r) or follow my writing blog [@intim3ate](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com), where I post progress, WIPs, and take requests.
> 
> If you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1122210346939244544). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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